


Shut Up and Dance, Dean Winchester

by Ailuromatron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancing, Fluff, Internalized Homophobia Mentioned, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mild Angst, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Is So Very Done, T rating for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-22 23:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11391042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailuromatron/pseuds/Ailuromatron
Summary: Dean is not going to think about the way Cas’ sudden withdrawal overlaps with the mental feedback Dean’s been experiencing here. He wouldn’t know what to make of it anyway, whether it’d be ironic or fitting or what. But if Castiel shutting him out turned out to be because Dean is loosening up, letting ideas form in his head more clearly than before—that would burn like a hot blade, and it just doesn’t bear looking too closely.It’s not the only thing tonight that doesn’t bear close inspection for the sake of Dean’s sanity. He damn near trips over his own feet when confronted by the south side of a north-facing Cas—seriously, when and where did he get that pair of ink-black jeans and in what universe is the way they fit his thighs not illegal?—and he’s pathetically grateful for the excuse of a rough patch of asphalt to blame it on when the others turn back to see what happened to him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ridiculously excited to be a part of this SPN Canon (mini) Big Bang. 
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you to Emmatheslayer for her really cool photo manip, which you can find [here](http://emmatheslayer.livejournal.com/448552.html). Thank you for choosing my little story to work your artistic magic on!
> 
> And I'm unspeakably grateful to the marvelous [dorkilysoulless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless) for being the loveliest beta to ever encourage a nervous newbie author. <3 <3 <3 Any remaining awkwardness or error is, of course, mine.

 

“ _Keep Austin Weird_.”

Dean sidesteps out of the path of a rainbow-haired cyclist before turning back toward Castiel. Cas is muttering to himself as he squints at a bumper sticker on the back end of a dinged-up blue Prius waiting to turn right. “Sorry, what?”

Castiel reads it aloud again, less to himself this time. “Keep Austin Weird.” He looks up and scans the street, which at dusk is just beginning to crowd with the early shift of bar hoppers and tourists in town for some sort of festival. His head tilts with the barest hint of his trademark posture of befuddlement. “Is this a concern here?”

Dean follows his gaze to a couple leaning against a parking meter, the guy’s arms draping lightly over his partner’s shoulders, her—his?— _their_ half-shorn head tucked under his chin, the pair’s collective jewelry mingling delicate chains and spiky studs in a way that Dean can only characterize as risky. Okay, also...strangely appealing. Maybe. But definitely risky. “I’d say their little weirdness campaign is either unnecessary or _really_ successful.”

He tears his eyes away from the enthusiastically decorated couple before the staring gets, well, weird, only to gape openly at the assortment of sci-fi and “geek chic” stickers on the tiny silver Mitsubishi now idling at the signal. Can you even call it idling when you plug a car in like a vacuum cleaner? The thing would probably fit in Baby’s trunk, after a few choice turns of an Ikea hex wrench. His eye roll loses momentum when his gaze catches on the license plate: GEEKGRL. A bittersweet smile blooms over his face instead. Self-righteous hippies and rabbit food freaks aside, these would’ve been Charlie’s people. Dean notices that Castiel and Sam have both turned to look back at him, so he pushes the melancholy back down into its usual home in his rib cage and clears his throat. “Where are we supposed to be going again? And when?”

Sam takes half a second longer than Dean would like to get with the change in focus, but he finally accepts the diversion and answers. “Marty said his place is called ‘Al’s Bar and Dance Hall,’ over in Aileyville. According to the GPS, it’s about twenty minutes out of town once we escape the festival traffic, maybe ten miles from our hotel? We could head on over after a stop to change back into civilian clothes, if you wanna eat there. Cesar said their chicken fried steak is amazing, and they carry a bunch of local craft beers.”

Dean runs a hand down the lapel of his entirely-too-hot-for-spring-in-Texas suit jacket and considers this. After two long days in full FBI garb, he’s more than ready to relax and literally chill out for a while. They’d officially wrapped their case that afternoon, with enough spare collective energy to spend an hour checking out downtown Austin, but the humidity is wearing him down. He makes eye contact with Cas to confirm his approval of the plan before nodding back at Sam. “Yeah, that sounds good. I could do with a pair of jeans and a kick-ass steak right about now. You can keep your hipster beer, though,” he adds with a squint of obligatory disgust.

“Whatever, Jerk.” Sam rejoins with a long-suffering quirk to his lips.

The trio ambles in a loose unit down the sidewalk toward the side street where Dean had carefully parked Baby that morning, at the time congratulating himself on his twofold avoidance of parking meters and tourists.

“Yeah, yeah, b--” Dean breaks off before completing his usual response to Sam’s call as he stops short to let a woman with a young girl on her hip cross the sidewalk in front of them. He catches Castiel’s quiet, pleased smile in his peripheral vision and flushes warmly for no reason whatsoever.

They wait with a half dozen other pedestrians for the traffic to clear at the last intersection between them and the car. Near their corner, a medievally thick wooden door stands propped open between grimy, barred windows. Intermittent measures of twangy guitar and an antsy drummer’s false starts spill out into the street on a cushion of beer- and barbecue sauce-scented air as a live band runs their sound check inside. Dean finds himself nodding and tapping a foot when the melody persists for several seconds in a row. It’s not the classic rock he favors, but a cheerfully raunchy rockabilly groove that he’s sure is going to get _somebody_ in that bar laid tonight. When a raw-edged electric bass kicks in right as they get their green light, he can’t quite contain the extra bounce in his step in time with the syncopation, and he sees Sam flash an amused dimple in his direction. Dean does manage to curb his defensive reaction to the hint of teasing—just.

Let Sammy laugh. A man can walk with a spring in his step on a gorgeous evening after a job well done. Thanks to some in-the-zone teamwork and a little bonus investigative badassery on Cas’s part, they’d even managed to keep the body count down to the one poor schmuck who’d taken himself out through his own ineptitude before they got wind of the case. He’s got a free night with his brother and his best friend, nobody’s injured, and there’s a proper steak in his near future. Fuck you, Sammy. Or somebody, anyhow. In occasional moments of brutal self-assessment, Dean knows full well that his insistent inner judge doesn’t speak with Sam’s voice. So yeah, fuck that guy too.

Dean allows a hint of a shimmy on his hips to the last faint pulse of bass as he struts up to Baby’s driver side door and grins at the other two men over her roof.

“So. Shall we?”

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

  

Sam slouches in one of a pair of obnoxiously orange chairs, his legs stretched out under the remarkably rickety “executive desk”. He has one foot braced against the back crossbar to keep the table from lurching so his laptop and coffee will stay more or less level. Their room claims to qualify as a suite—a stained and battered pull-out sofa is crammed into the space between the first bed and a kitchenette—but there’s barely enough space between the double beds to bend down to tie one’s boots, and the three of them have spent two days dodging elbows, shoulders, and foreheads with increasing irritation.

Rather, _Dean_ has been increasingly irritated. Castiel has maintained his characteristic unflappability with a side of vague bafflement at Dean’s bluster over the forced proximity.

Sam is just grateful they managed to snag a room at all, having rolled into town with no notice during Austin’s ever-expanding event season. As it is, they’re breaking even on budget. This hotel is a couple of tiers classier—and thus proportionally pricier—than their usual digs, but the higher price is offset by sharing the one room instead of the two they’ve gotten used to when Castiel comes along on a hunt.

Some time back, Sam had reached his saturation point for dealing with the copious quantities of Unresolved Sexual(?) Tension generated by his travel companions. He’d matter-of-factly taken charge of the room arrangements, refused to acknowledge any raised eyebrows over the extra key card, and has since thoroughly enjoyed the use of a room of his own to read and sleep in peace. The already scant hope that bunking together might encourage Dean and Cas to quit stubbornly dancing around each other faded to nothing almost immediately, but Sam misses the buffer of separate space this trip. Acutely.

He gives up on fighting with the table and clicks his laptop closed just as the shower shuts off behind the adjoining wall. Castiel flinches when Sam banks his empty styrofoam cup into the metal waste basket and glances over from where he’s propped stiffly against the head of the window-side bed. He’s changed out of his default uniform of suit, tie, and coat, which are hanging in the weird little doorless hotel closet. He now sports snug black jeans and a blue flannel, apparently taking his fashion cues from Sam and Dean. The remote is tipped loosely in his hand, forgotten, and Sam’s pretty sure he hasn’t actually been paying attention to whatever home improvement melodrama is playing on the oversaturated flat screen.

Castiel has seemed a little fuzzy around the edges for most of this case, a little off his usual laser-sharp focus. Not in any hazardous way of course, never during any actual action, certainly not when any of them might be in danger. But between times? He just seems off. Distracted. Sam isn’t sure if he should say something to Castiel, or to Dean, or at all, but regardless, now isn’t the time to ask what’s on his mind, what with Dean’s imminent return. Sam suppresses a sigh. Scribble that one down in the missed opportunity column.

The bathroom door swings open with an exhalation of fragrant steam and Dean emerges in a pair of low-slung, conspicuously fitted jeans that he’s historically reserved for non-supernatural “hunting”. There’s a too-short white hotel towel draped over his bare shoulders to catch any residual drips from his hair, but it seems he neglected to take fresh shirts into the bathroom with him. He saunters the length of the room to dig a black tee out of his duffel before crossing back to retrieve his dark red button-front from its hanger. _Jesus, Dean_. It is almost literally painful how oblivious these two are. It’s only thanks to years of experience with his brother’s performing persona(e) that Sam can tell that this particular swagger is just Dean’s default gait and not a show for their benefit. It’s actually plausible that Dean has no idea what he’s doing to half of his audience.

Sam can feel the inhuman degree of stillness Castiel is achieving, even from out of his line of sight, even from ten feet away, and doesn’t bother suppressing this sigh. He directs a brief, pointed glare at each man in turn before grabbing his phone and hauling himself up with a squeak of protesting vinyl to stalk over to the bathroom. If those idiots out there actually jump at the near-slam of the door, he’s not at all bothered.

He hears Dean ask, “What crawled up _his_ ass and died?” before he yanks on the handle to start the shower just to drown them out. Maybe if they think he’ll be a while, they’ll get their collective shit together. He doesn’t need a shower (Dean probably drained their entire floor of hot water anyway) and the Wi-Fi here is making him nostalgic for dial-up, but he’s more than willing to play offline solitaire for the next fifteen minutes if that’s what it takes to get a break from whatever it is that’s still not happening in the other room.

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

After a few minutes, the humidity in the tiny room begins to threaten his screen with condensation and Sam shuts the shower off. His annoyance dissipates with the steam in the air while he fiddles absentmindedly with his phone, perched with his ass going numb against the edge of the counter. Eventually his eyes drift away from his game and focus somewhere past the floor as he replays bits and pieces of the last couple of days.

Close quarters unpleasantness aside, he thinks this trip has been good for all of them. They had been long overdue for an interesting yet low-drama, low-trauma case, and this thing with a private collection of vintage booze bottles has been a welcome diversion. Sam still isn’t quite sure if they’ve decided to call it a proper curse or not. While neither he nor Dean are inclined to trust anything with even the sparest glimmer of Faerie hanging around it, he supposes they’ve managed to work out the best possible solution for everyone concerned.

When Cesar and Jesse had called to ask for help on behalf of a buddy in Texas, it hadn’t sounded like much of a case to Sam. Dean was the one to insist they step up and make the trip, and it turned out that his instincts were solid. Whether Dean’s gut had been telling him it was a real case or that it would be a good mini-vacation isn’t totally clear, but Sam can’t find it in himself to care either way.

It’s subtle: little things here and there, flashes of expression, slight shifts in carriage and posture. But in hindsight, Sam can see how much their short time in this city has uncoiled his brother. He’s frankly ashamed of not having realized how tightly wound Dean’s baseline really was. Sure, there have always been cracks in the façade, but Sam can’t remember the last time Dean relaxed his performance enough that being caught indulging in anything less than alpha-manly didn’t send him into a fit of knee-jerk defensiveness and weaponized snark.

No matter where they go in the world there are, obviously, all kinds of people, but the hunter community likes things tidily black and white, and not just where Monsters versus Humans are concerned. Eccentricity might be tolerated, even expected, but that doesn’t translate to accepting challenges to their standards for what makes a Real Man. The worst thing for a hunter to be is weak, and to deviate from that norm? Well, there’s a reason even the women tend to maintain a tough-guy exterior. Meeting Max and Alicia at Asa Fox’s wake had been a bit of a revelation, and Sam had thoroughly enjoyed seeing them hold their own among the good ol’ boys. He understands, though, that they're outsiders raised away from hunter culture, and it’s a very different thing to make an about face after a lifetime of John Winchester’s voice playing on a loop in your head.

It dawns on Sam that he’s spent the last couple of days watching Dean watch the crowds around them with his mental wheels spinning. There is a broad and incongruous spectrum of masculinity on display here, and it’s got to be challenging Dean’s programming in some significant way. The stereotypical extremes are evident, of course: effeminate, flamboyant twinky types with their skinny jeans and highlighted undercuts who can’t always be distinguished from the self-consciously no-homo metrosexuals; the burly and bearded, leather and/or flannel biker caricatures juxtaposed with their dogmatically traditionalist, far-right, good ol’ boy counterparts.

But the impression here is that even those who almost certainly preach a xenophobic party line on their own sprawling ranches and in little nearby hamlets more or less good-naturedly accept the alternate universe rules that govern Austin proper. Reasonably obvious PDA like that of the indeterminately gendered couple from earlier seem to rarely draw more than an eye-roll or an extra step to the side.

Sam knows from his habitual sifting of second, fifth, or tenth page news items that people like that couple, if they speak out of turn in Podunk, Midwest—or even many bigger cities—can expect overt disgust and censure at best, and violent suppression is a real possibility. Here, whatever tensions undoubtedly exist behind the scenes, a vibrant diversity is on clear display, and Dean is just as clearly noticing it.

Sam is not so confident in his understanding of his brother to claim even to himself that he could grasp all the ways this might be affecting Dean. Over the years, he’s wondered on and off just how deep Dean’s repression goes, whether it’s simply a matter of not allowing himself to challenge their father’s standards or if it might be something more than that. He has his suspicions and intuitions but no clear answers, and while he may smirk inwardly about the existence of “UST” between Cas and Dean, he wouldn’t venture a guess as to whether that’s a Dean is Maybe Not Totally Straight thing or a Dean is Just Flummoxed by Cas thing.

Of course, getting a read on Dean is further complicated by the pair’s history of vacillating from hostility to impasse to détente to standoff back to…well, they’ve seemed pretty chill recently, but presently the ambient tension has ratcheted back up to near suffocating status, and fuck all if Sam can figure out the catalyst for it this time.

Sam hoists his tired backside up away from the counter and takes a deep breath before opening the door to brave the quiet room beyond. He wonders if tonight’s little event at the bar is going to be the thing that finally pushes Dean to let himself be himself, at least for an evening, or if it’ll spook him back into his shell. Maybe he should warn Dean ahead of time, give him an hour to wrap his head around it. Undecided, Sam steps out into the room to find the other two men sitting in rigid, painfully silent mirror images on the separate beds, watching nonsense on the TV with such intensity that he can almost see waves of heat in the air along their sight lines.

 

_Oh, fuck this._

 

Sam says nothing. He quickly checks his cash and ID, slides his wallet into his back pocket, pulls on his jacket, and jingles the keys to get Dean to look up at him before he tosses them over. He heads out the door and trusts that they’ll follow him to the car.

 

* * *

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

The drive to the bar isn’t as awful as Dean assumed it would be after all the weirdness back at the hotel. Sammy had reached a new level of pissy for who knows what reason, but luckily he seems to have decided somewhere between the room and the parking lot to set aside whatever it was that had him all…whatever. As Dean pulls off the two-lane highway into a gravel parking lot, Sam’s humming along faintly with a rock ballad on the radio and putting off a vibe of deliberate but not inauthentic chill.

Dean checks on Castiel in the rear view mirror while he waits for an outsized pick-up truck to clear the lane leading to the less congested end of the lot. He feels more than sees the gleam of indigo blue in the shadows across Cas’ face when he senses Dean’s eyes on him and meets his gaze. He offers what is probably meant to be a reassuring smile. Dean returns it with a quick, put-on grin, but he doesn’t miss the residual tension in the other man’s jaw and shoulders. As he slides his eyes back to safely steer the Impala into a nice wide parking space, both of their smiles fall away.

Sam’s earlier mood was jarring, but it’s less worrisome than Cas’ suddenly renewed reserve. Yeah, okay, Dean’s been calling the guy awkward for years, but with this apparent backsliding into actual awkwardness he realizes that it’s been more out of habit than reality for a long time now, and probably unfair to boot. Over the years, he and Cas have developed an ease with each other, a brusque affection, in spite of all the conflict and drama. And yeah, staring. It’s probably true that Dean’s impressive skills in emotional suppression and self-censure helped that along. If not for that, he would almost certainly have crossed a line years ago that would have resulted in “awkward” being the understatement of a lifetime. Sam might question the efficacy of Dean’s brain-to-mouth filter based on what does escape him, but when it comes to what’s actually important? He can filter himself so successfully that he can redefine his own reality.

See, Cas—

Castiel is Important.

And in spite of the demons, angels, and humans who’ve obliquely alluded to—or outright snarked at—their supposed amorous connection, Dean is absolutely not into Cas. Because that would be pointless. Because even if Dean _is_ maybe kind of sometimes into dudes, Castiel, erstwhile angel, warrior of Heaven, _multidimensional wavelength of celestial friggin’ intent_ , is so much more than a dude. And Dean, ex-demon, gold star student of Alastair, Prodigal Son with a dead father, accepts that the blood on his hands and grave dirt under his nails keeps him lower and closer to the dust of humanity than most. So it’s probably a good thing that he’s never been able to completely evict John Winchester’s voice from his head. Because sometimes…sometimes, being around Castiel makes him want to believe he’s worthy, that it wouldn’t be pointless to let himself acknowledge the— _fuck_ —”profound bond” between them as something other than brotherly. So, just…Cas is a dude. And Dean Winchester is not into him. Because that would be pointless. So he’s not. Because just maybe, if Dean’s world ever tilted far enough on its axis to allow him to acknowledge the Dude thing, it might free him up to honestly wrestle with the Castiel Believes He Is Worthy thing. Which…No.

The thing about suppression, even really effective suppression, is that it’s still not elimination. It’s just as well that years spent believing the unbelievable have left Dean remarkably comfortable with paradox. He’s constantly straddling the line between containing his feelings so effectively that they all but cease to exist and therefore aren’t a Thing, and being grateful for what he does have with Cas, accepting as simple fact that there’s no way he’ll ever have more. Either way, he’s accustomed to the constant low hum of his longing thrumming in the background of everything.

Were he to let himself think about it long enough to visualize it, he might liken it to a Venn diagram shaped like a circle. Tonight, the top ring nudges beyond the edge of the other just enough, and the hum-thrum buzzes with disconcerting intensity.

Dean is not going to think about the way Cas’ sudden withdrawal overlaps with the mental feedback Dean’s been experiencing here. He wouldn’t know what to make of it anyway, whether it’d be ironic or fitting or what. But if Castiel shutting him out turned out to be because Dean is loosening up, letting ideas form in his head more clearly than before—that would burn like a hot blade, and it just doesn’t bear looking too closely.

It’s not the only thing tonight that doesn’t bear close inspection for the sake of Dean’s sanity. He damn near trips over his own feet when confronted by the south side of a north-facing Cas—seriously, when and where did he get that pair of ink-black jeans and in what universe is the way they fit his thighs not illegal?—and he’s pathetically grateful for the excuse of a rough patch of asphalt to blame it on when the others turn back to see what happened to him. He’s not sure which is worse: the effect those jeans have on his dick, or the effect the deep blue, muted plaid shirt has on his heart. Cas has never looked more like a Winchester.

Dean shakes all of this off in the time it takes them to unload from the car and cross the parking lot to the broad double doors. The whole feels spiel is nothing new, and plays itself out without requiring any fresh input. He’s here for good food, good beer, and good company. And good music, he hopes. If he’s lucky, they won’t be stuck listening to twangy caterwauling all evening. He quickens his step enough to outpace the others and reaches forward to open one of the heavy double doors.

 

* * *

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

The doors welcome them into a small entryway that splits the openings into dining and dancing areas. The two sides are anchored in the middle by an invitingly shabby wood-paneled bar visible over the half-height wall that backs the currently vacant seating station podium thing in front of them. A hand-lettered sign reads, “Please seat yourself”. The brawny blond guy working the bar glances over his shoulder at them, then turns back to the taps to finish setting up a row of mugs and bottles for the waitress waiting on him.

The room to their left has a low ceiling in the same dark stain as the bar, and sparsely set tables, about half of which are occupied by folks munching on bar snacks and appetizers. A waiter passes near the open doorway and Dean catches a whiff of char and sweet, buttery roasted garlic and has to steady himself a little. It’s been too long since he’s indulged in something classier than diner fare or makeshift grilling in the bunker kitchen. He peeks around the corner for a better look into the room. Beyond the tables he can see doors in the back wall that might lead to offices or private dining rooms or party rooms, and at the far end, a swinging door with an inset porthole reveals a glimpse of a busy kitchen. He doesn’t see any sign of Marty, so he steps back with the others to check out the other side of the place.

To the right of the entry is a much larger open area dominated by a well-marked dance floor alongside a raised stage. There are several tiny standing cocktail tables near the bar and a handful of roomy booths against the short end wall, but most of the people on this side are hanging out near the dance floor, paired or chatting in friendly clumps. There are some mic stands and a couple of stools scattered about the stage, but it looks like tonight’s music will be presided over by the deejay currently setting up his table. The ceiling here slopes dramatically upward from the edge of the bar, with exposed beams against a lighter background. A weak reflective flare from above catches in Dean’s peripheral vision, and he looks up to find a dusty disco ball suspended from a crossbeam.

They hesitate for a moment, awaiting wordless consensus on which way to go. Just as Dean pivots back to the left and Sam steps out to the right, Castiel recognizes the head of spiky ginger hair that pops up from behind the bar and reaches out a hand to each of the brothers to halt them. Dean’s head snaps up, his eyes catching sharply where Castiel’s hand is already releasing him, before continuing up to his face to see why he’d held them back.

He resents the itch that twinges on the rare occasion that Cas’ hand makes contact with his unscarred shoulder. He’s always been hyperaware of points of contact between them, but the violating false familiarity of Lucifer wearing Cas’ face imposed a whole new level of _wrong wrong wrong_ on certain gestures that he has yet to shake off. He manages to contain any outward recoil, and turns his head now to follow Castiel’s sight line and sees Marty lift his chin in an up-nod of recognition, rushing over to greet them with a bright grin and arms spread in welcome.

“Guys! Hey! Glad you could make it! I hoped you’d decide to stick around.” He shakes each of their hands vigorously in turn, finishing with Sam and squeezing his arm in a half hug. “We’ll set y’all a booth so you can grab a bite before tonight’s dancing kicks off. Check out the menu and I’ll get you whatever you want on the house.  Y’all are _family_ now, though of course ya would’ve been anyway just on Jesse and Cesar’s recommendation, I _love_ those guys, they’re _amazing_ , and now _you_ guys have _literally_ saved my _life_ and it’s so _great_ that you’re _here_ , I’d bet you don’t get to just hang out and take a break very often, yeah? And you’re gonna _love_ the class later, Sid and Charlene are _amazing_ instructors, and our regulars are a _terrific_ group of people, plus we’ve always got a _great_ group of newbies who wanna have fun, too! Now, y’all go on and sit down over there and take a load off, figure out what you wanna eat, and Ginny’ll be over to take your drink orders in two shakes.” He delivers all of this with an enthusiastic, rapid-fire cadence, his hands clasped in front of his chest as if in mid-applause or rapturous prayer. Sam grins back at him, while Castiel smiles a little vaguely but looks over at the dance-floor group with open curiosity.

Meanwhile, it takes Dean’s brain a moment to catch up and register everything Marty said, and he barely manages to squeak out, “Wait, _dance lessons?_ ” before Sam is steering him by the elbow toward the booths.  Marty’s already bustling off in the direction of the kitchen. Sam maneuvers him over to the center booth, the only one with a U-shaped bench, and effectively traps Dean into the middle seat by hip checking him in on one end and sliding over before Dean can brace himself against it. Castiel settles into the other end, keeping a respectable distance until Sam stretches his legs out in front of him. One sheepish expression and a mumbled apology later, Castiel shifts over a little closer to Dean to give Sam more room for his outsized moose hooves.

Dean finds himself suspended in limbo between his irritation at Sam, who is clearly not a bit surprised by Marty’s references to tonight’s agenda— _is there anything else you’d like to share with the class, Sammy?_ —and the conflicting surges of comfort and anxiety that wash over him in response to being so close to Cas.

Their sleeves brush against each other when they both extend their arms on the table to hold their menus.

Their knees press together when one of them leans over to point something out on the list that the other might like.

Dean can feel the aura of warmth Cas carries about him like a corporeal thing, a buffer that alternately soothes and frustrates him. It’s driving him to distraction, and it’s a good thing he came in with a single-minded culinary goal because he realizes abruptly that he’s picked about a third of the label off of the bottle of beer he’s holding. A beer that he only vaguely recalls ordering, never mind receiving, and he has only a hazy notion of having ordered a steak from a bubbly woman in a...fluffy white top? Sam and Cas are deep in a nerdtastic discussion about some point of local history, happily talking past Dean and his daze.

And when did the music start up? He listens for a bit, not quite recognizing the song. It’s country, to be sure, but at least it’s not whiny. Some chick is singing about how some guy’s trouble is from being with the wrong girl, but it manages to sound bouncy and upbeat anyway. Most of the folks near the stage are still milling about a bit, but a handful of couples have started dancing in a loose loop around the floor, their steps smooth and fancied up with occasional twists and twirls.

The waitress arrives (wearing a pouffy white blouse thing; he wasn’t _completely_ out of it), balancing a broad tray on one arm, and passes each of them a warm plate laden with beefy goodness. Dean notes that even Sam ordered a huge slab of fried steak to go with his inevitable rabbit food (is that _okra?)_ , while Castiel went with a classic burger smothered in gooey melted cheese and sliced mushrooms that have clearly never seen the inside of a tin can. Dean is grateful for the interruption to both his own brain fog and the other men’s conversation, and tucks into his steak with vigor, licking the excess gravy off his knife like a starving man. He feels Castiel tense slightly beside him and instinctively scans the room for threats, but nothing seems amiss, so he just shrugs it off internally when Cas resettles without comment.

For several long minutes, conversation is limited to appreciative moans and half-articulate comments on the quality of the food. But when he’s about halfway through his meal, Sam takes a long draw on his beer, sets it back down, and rests his arms against the edge of the table before turning his attention to Dean. “So. You gonna dance?”

Dean levels his most unimpressed stare at him and chews his bite thoroughly. He puts down his fork, takes a drink and returns the bottle to the table, all the while maintaining eye contact with Sam. For his part, Sam waits patiently, his expression carefully open and neutral, as if he has just asked a perfectly reasonable question. Dean feels like he’s being...handled. That’s annoying as hell, and he wants nothing more than to fling a forkful of garlic mash into Sam’s hair. Incredible as the food is, he could make a strong case for justifying the waste. But he catches a faint echo of the “fuck you” he’d asserted on his own behalf earlier that afternoon and masters himself enough to seriously consider the question.

It’s Castiel who tips him over, however. Once it appears that Dean is actually thinking about it, Sam’s control over his expression wavers just enough to betray his surprise and Dean flushes a bit, flustered by his own irritation. “What? I could dance.” He turns to Cas for backup, only to find him mirroring Sam’s look of cautious amazement, and just… _What the hell, guys?_

In all honesty, he knows better than to ask why they assume he’d balk, and yeah, sure, he _was_ going to scoff and keep his ass planted in the booth for the night. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it’d been a long time since his heart was into trolling for a hookup, longer still since the whole macho act had been anything but that—an act—if it ever really had run deeper. The company here at this booth is all he truly needs or wants. But _shit_ , it’s dawning on him that all those years of acting the part were more convincing than he knew. Neither of them thought he had it in him to put himself out there like that without a cruder motivation...

Dean washes down his last bite of steak and lays his fork and napkin neatly next to his plate with tight, deliberate movements. He takes a deep breath, avoiding both of the other men’s eyes, and growls out, “Shove over, dude.” He leans into Castiel, who blinks at him in confusion before sitting abruptly upright in his seat and sliding over to let Dean out of the booth. Dean stands up, steps past Castiel, adjusts the waist of his jeans, taps his cuffs down over his boots, tugs his collar forward crisply. With a flippant salute in Sam’s general direction, he turns away and strides across the room to where the instructors are introducing themselves and separating the dancers into groups for the lesson.

 

* * *

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Dean doesn’t look back, so he doesn’t see Castiel’s intense gaze follow him all the way to the dance floor. Castiel steps back slowly and sinks down into the seat, easing his way with one hand braced on the table, never taking his eyes off the man walking away from him. Sam finishes his dinner in patient silence and savors the last of his beer. He watches Castiel watch Dean, and occasionally checks on Dean across the room. He’s not sure Castiel remembers that he isn’t alone.

Ginny, their waitress, catches Sam’s eye from the bar and he gestures with his empty bottle in reply. When she appears at the table with three fresh beers, Castiel startles and offers Sam an apologetic glance before turning the full force of his smiling blue eyes on Ginny to thank her. She stutters slightly in her movements while placing the last bottle on the table and collecting the empties, and Sam grins down at his plate. Yeah, the guy can have that effect on people. Too bad for them he only really has eyes for Dean, for whatever it’s worth. Ginny seems to be picking up on this herself, as Cas has already shifted his focus back to the dance floor even as he tries unsuccessfully to keep his torso squared to the table to seem more engaged with them. She follows his line of sight to where Dean is awkwardly stepping forward and back in a line with the rest of the students as they practice the slow-slow-quick-quick rhythm of the Texas Two-Step before being partnered off. She looks back to Castiel and smiles, her warm amusement melting into gentle sympathy, and she and Sam share wry looks before she remembers herself and finishes clearing their dishes.

Ginny pauses a moment before leaving their table, the tray tucked in on her hip. “Either of y’all going to give it a whirl?”

Sam chuckles. “Nah. Not me, anyway,” he says with a glance at Castiel, who is still watching the dancers but with one ear cocked toward the table, listening. “I’m just gonna hang out and watch. I’m glad my brother’s enjoying himself, though. He could use some loosening up. No idea if he has any rhythm, but he seems to be having fun.” The would-be dancers are now being split into four groups by the female instructor while the guy talks to the deejay. Dean now appears to be wearing a tag with a number on it, along with the others in two of the groups. “What’s with the tags?”

“They number half the students so they can make sure everybody dances with enough different partners. I don’t know how they keep track of it all, but they try to work it so all the leads get a short turn with each of the follows before they switch.”

Cas finally looks over at her again. “Switch?”

“Oh, yeah! We do ambi-dancing here. Everybody gets to learn to lead and everybody gets to learn to follow, regardless of gender. It’s pretty sweet. Every once in a while we get a couple of guys who balk and refuse to take a turn with another dude, but for the most part people really seem to like it. We’re one of a handful of places where same-sex and nonbinary couples can dance without having to worry about somebody looking at them funny. Or idiots asking which one of them’s the guy in the relationship.” Ginny rolls her eyes and snorts. “My girlfriend used to be one of the instructors, and she learned some techniques when she was a competitive swing dancer. They’re much less uptight about that stuff than the ballroom folks.”

Castiel considers all of this for a few long seconds. He looks over at Sam and asks him, “Did you know they did it like this?” Sam just grins at him, which earns him a subtle raised eyebrow from Cas, who gives up and turns to look back across the floor at Dean. His voice is impenetrably dry when he remarks, “It appears they have now explained that part of the plan.”

Sam glances over to see what he’s talking about and sees that about a quarter of the dancers suddenly look freshly unsure and self-conscious, some a bit blustery. Dean’s ears have turned pink enough that the glow is visible where they sit, as is the hunch in his shoulders. He seems to waver for a moment, and Sam thinks he can actually see his jaw clench, but then his face flashes an expression of determination before settling into a well-practiced, easy smirk. Sam quietly releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding and settles more comfortably into his seat. He catches Ginny eyeing him appraisingly. She shakes her head a little but grins at him before leaving for the kitchen. “Let me know if y’all need anything.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

Sam goes back to studying the other two men and nursing his beer. There is more than enough happening beneath the surface here to entertain him for an evening, and after so many years of biting his tongue, he refuses to feel guilty for being entertained by it.

 

* * *

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Dean and his cohorts are now working their way through another set of practice steps, this time paired off. It looks like Dean is one of the leads for this round, if Sam remembers the steps correctly. The woman—er, the follower—is the one who moves backwards, right? Anyway, Dean seems to be doing well. His posture is relaxed but for the natural tension that comes with carefully counting his steps, and he’s laughing easily when he or his partner stumbles or steps the wrong way before pausing to catch up and get back to the rhythm set by the song.

He’s currently with a blonde woman who would be tall even without the heels she’s wearing, and she just said something to make him laugh. He grins and replies as they match up their steps again, his attitude mildly flirty, but Sam can easily tell that there’s no real intent in it. It looks like Dean’s partner can tell that, too, as she’s engaging him just as lightly, and not leaning into him more than necessary or anything like that. Sam wonders if Castiel can tell all of this or not. He’s still zeroed in on Dean like before, but now there’s a pensive tilt to his head, his body less tense but no less focused. It almost looks like he’s waiting for something.

“He seems to be doing pretty well, especially considering I’ve never seen him really dance before,” Sam offers.

Castiel considers this before replying. “I wouldn’t think he’d find it difficult. It’s mostly a matter of knowing where one’s body is in relation to one’s partner’s body, and moving in relation to that in time with the music. He’s a warrior, and a good one. That skill should transfer well to this.”

It occurs to Sam to wonder then how well Castiel might do on the dance floor. In all his years hunting, he’s never seen someone move with the level of purpose and, well, grace that Cas does with an angel blade. And now he's speaking with authority on the structure of partnered dancing. Does this come from observation or experience?

Several songs play out as the dancers are put through their paces, an interesting mix of musical styles, not just country. Sam recognizes the Dixie Chicks and...Walk the Moon? That one has a fast tempo. _Whoa_ , that’s Rihanna. It would seem they’re making a point about the versatility of two-stepping. As Eddie Rabbitt begins to sing about driving his life away, Sam sees that Dean is now dancing backwards, paired with a guy. It looks like he’s wound pretty tight again, but is it the dude or the change in direction? Over the course of the song, he visibly relaxes into the motions, gaining confidence and even beginning to engage his partner in conversation like he had before. Sam could not overstate how impressed (and maybe relieved) he is.

He glances over at Castiel to see how he’s reacting to this and is brought up short by the change in his demeanor. _Holy shit._ He can’t be sure if what he’s witnessing is positive or negative, some kind of hopeful or jealous or longing or smitey or what, but whatever it is, it’s _potent_. Sam can’t actually see his eyes, but it wouldn’t surprise him a bit if they were glowing grace blue. Sheer focus is all but radiating off of him.

And then suddenly it’s gone, leaving Sam wondering if he had really seen what he knows he saw. Castiel is calm and contained again. He takes a deep, decisive breath, a curious call back to Dean’s earlier behavior when he made the decision to dance.

 

_Interesting._

 

Meanwhile, the lessons have wrapped and the instructors are giving a final pep talk to the class, who then disperse. About half remain on the floor, partnering up in fits and starts to continue dancing, while the others either clear to the side to watch or wait for a new song, or wander over to the bar to take a break or to purchase a little more liquid courage. Sam automatically scans the exodus at the bar, but comes up blank before turning back toward the dancers. Yes, there’s a flash of sandy hair over dark red coming into view as the group slowly circles the floor. And he’s dancing with a guy. Wait, is that _Marty_? Sam almost laughs out loud. It’s definitely Marty, his hair glowing ginger, his unsupported hand gesticulating animatedly as he talks. Dean is leading.

Castiel swallows loudly and sets his beer down with a _thunk_. He gives Sam a nod without actually shifting his attention from the dancers, and slides smoothly out of his seat to prowl across the room, every step exhibiting an accomplished swordsman’s bearing. Sam watches with no small amount of awe. Castiel circles around to the stage side behind a small group standing to watch the dancers, and makes eye contact with Marty just as the song fades out. The music transitions to a piece with sweetly melodic plucked strings, quieter, though still with an easily recognizable rhythm to follow. Dean and Marty have just dropped their hands and stepped a little apart with matching proud grins. Castiel strides confidently up from behind Dean with a nod to Marty, who steps back with a wink and a flourish as Castiel takes Dean’s left hand, making him jump slightly. He steps into Dean’s space and moves the stunned man’s hand to his own right shoulder in a smooth, resolute movement. He then grasps Dean’s right hand and lifts it so it rests in his own left, all while smoothly turning the two of them so that Dean is now with his back to the direction of travel, and then pauses, the first hesitation he’s shown since he moved from his seat. Dean is blinking at him, his mouth slack, his body perfectly still.

Sam holds his breath, and for the first time tonight feels a little uncomfortably voyeuristic, but he can’t bring himself to take his eyes off of them. They’re just off center of one of the lights shining down from above the stage, glowing around the edges as they stand, eyes locked, caught up in each other. Other dancers pass them unnoticed. The hand resting to the front of Castiel’s shoulder clenches briefly into a near fist before splaying out in a stretch and resettling. It’s the only thing that betrays what must be a rather frantic mental battle. Castiel leans forward to say something quietly into Dean’s left ear, and Dean flushes brilliantly, finally dropping his gaze to the side and keeping it down for a long moment. Then he gives an almost imperceptible nod and the two men finally begin to move.

Ginny appears beside Sam with another beer and a tall glass of ice water—damn, she’s good; he makes a mental note to leave a generous tip—and stays to watch with him for a few minutes. “They sure make a pretty picture.” As they pass under another light, the deep red and blue of their shirts contrast nicely, and their tall, fit figures do make a striking image. Sam nods in agreement.

She asks him, “Is this a new thing?” and pulls an amused face when Sam snorts out a short but slightly hysterical laugh. “Let me guess, it’s complicated?” She grins at his rueful shrug and removes the remaining empties to the bar.

It takes them a few passes around the floor to find their groove, a woman’s breathy, warbling soprano serenading them about not letting go of what she’s found. Sam can’t help but chuckle at the deejay’s timing. From there it’s not long until he can see Dean noticeably relax into Castiel’s hold, their rhythm secure and their trust in each other obvious. Castiel’s earlier commentary is illustrated beautifully here on this Texas dance hall floor. Their years of experience reading each others’ bodies in battle serve them well. They’re frankly mesmerizing, and Sam can see that he’s not the only one to notice; they have claimed the attention of most of the others sitting out this song near the dance floor, as well as some at the bar.

When the song ends, there are a few clumsy moments of couples entering or exiting the floor, and some changing of partners. Dean and Castiel just pause to one side, evidently getting their bearings and a feel for the next song, which changes things up with a quick tempo and energetically picked strings. The melody is familiar, but Sam can’t quite catch it, until... _oh. Oh, wow._ It’s very clear even from across the room that Dean recognizes it at the same moment, judging by the look of utterly disbelieving disgust he directs at the deejay, who sees him and laughs. Sam can’t help but agree, although he’s more amused than offended by it. Van Halen’s “Jump” was not meant for bluegrass, even if David Lee Roth’s voice coming out of the speakers indicates that he, at least, approved the cover.

Dean shakes his head and turns to leave the dance floor, and Sam frowns his brows together, worried that this has broken the spell. He hopes desperately that Dean isn’t going to take this moment to freak out over having let himself have this. But he only takes about three steps before stopping and looking back to see that Castiel is still standing there staring after him, looking a little lost. Dean smiles shyly, a little sadly, and walks back to grab Cas’ hand. He links their fingers together in an unmistakable display of possession, and pulls him along to a dim corner at the far end of the room, where they settle into the shadows, their hands still clasped and their foreheads almost touching, speaking low.

Sam breathes out a short prayer of gratitude to whatever powers might still be listening, and hauls himself out of his seat to amble over to claim a stool at the bar.

He wonders idly if Marty might have a couch he can crash on tonight. 

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> This all came about because of a mental image I got over a year ago. It was a clear picture of a flustered Dean Winchester, staring dumbstruck at Cas who has just positioned them, unexpectedly, to dance together. I could just *see* it, and after letting it ping around in my head for several months, I finally set myself to forcing it out of my brain and through my keyboard. I hope that y'all can now see it, too.
> 
> For anyone who's wondering, these are the songs the guys noticed playing at the dance hall:  
> "There's Your Trouble", The Dixie Chicks  
> "Shut Up and Dance", Walk the Moon  
> "Love the Way You Lie", Eminem and Rihanna  
> "Drivin' My Life Away", Eddie Rabbitt  
> "Baby Now That I Found You", Alison Krauss  
> "Jump", The John Jorgenson Bluegrass Band and David Lee Roth
> 
> Thanks again to [Emmatheslayer](http://emmatheslayer.livejournal.com/) and [dorkilysoulless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless). Please be sure to give them some love in their personal corners of the internet.


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